The Prodigal Returns
by WishedTwiceOver
Summary: This is part of a bigger storyline, which I'll explain throughout the story. So...summary: Wolverine has a daughter, who is confronted in the midst of her current life, comes back to Xavier's school, and promptly gets kidnapped.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE: The Prodigal Returns**

**February 17****th****, 2029**

It's still not clear when or how I left my former life of stable predictability and entered this new ideology bent on changing the world. All I know is that one instant redirected the familiar path I'd been walking for so long. Monotony was preferable to uncertainty. How did I land myself in this predicament—how did this even become a predicament? Before today, there would be no moral dilemma. This would all seem so trivial. Now my mind is shuffling options like a poorly played card game. I can't keep up with my thoughts; it's as if I'm mentally running short of breath. I can't sleep, can't eat, can't concentrate…I can't even breathe without thinking consciously about each breath. If only I had simply walked away, dismissed myself, gone against that deceptive lie my mind had been harboring since childhood. Peace. What a perfect word for a socially accepted pipedream.

**June 7****th****, 2026**

"Meri!"  
This is where I should have ignored his voice.

"Don't walk away," he said.  
I should have done exactly that.

"I know who you are. You don't have to hide anymore." 'I know who you are? You don't have to hide anymore?' Who did he think he was—God?  
I stopped. Why couldn't I just keep walking?

"I don't know what you're talking about." My response was stereotypical and clumsy. I needed to change the direction this interaction was heading towards. "I should be asking who you are—or who you _think_ you are," I said, then silently cursed at myself. That was only a catalyst for conversation. Besides, I knew very well who he was.

"You know that already. Don't waste time asking questions you know the answer to." he said. "I didn't know we were on a tight schedule," I thought, hoping he wasn't a telepath, and hoping he would shut up. But he didn't shut up; he kept right on talking. Though I wasn't particularly attracted to him, at least in a sexual way, I was distracted, noting every distinct quality in his appearance. His eyes were a metallic blue. I felt that if I looked closely enough, I might be able to see right through them into that idealistic, disillusioned mind. His hair was a sandier blonde than it appeared on the cover of Newsweek. The most shocking feature of all was, inevitably, the wings. "They must have an eight foot span," I thought to myself. Again, I prayed he wasn't telepathic, as I immediately considered how ironic it was, a girl wondering about the length of a guy's wingspan.

"Did you hear me?" He spoke a little louder. I was starting to get fed up.

"Your real name is Warren Worthington, your name in the mutant community is Archangel, and I'm not interested in any of your fantasized ideals," I spouted off. I wanted him to know that I'd not only heard what he said (although I hadn't); I'd heard what he didn't say. "Tell the professor thank you for his help, but I've grown up since then, and I've made my decision." I noticed a slight change in his facial expression. It was something between pity and sorrow. He paused before speaking again.

"Lynx—"

"Meri." I cut him off.

"What do you do for a living?"  
I hesitated.

"I'm a journalist, and I prefer writing about the disasters in this world as opposed to participating in them." I knew the card he was trying to play. He was trying to make me feel dissatisfied, incomplete—as if satisfaction was the point of living. Then again, what can a person expect from a guy with the code name "Angel?"

"Isn't your job to tell the real story?" He was really starting to wear on me.

"My job is to make money capturing the attention of the public. But yes, I do try to relay the facts…whenever possible. It just so happens that people enjoy that little dash of fabrication once in a while more than the usual, everyday 'cut and dry' truth."

"Well, you know what they say: Fact is stranger than fiction."

"You don't attend staff meetings. You don't read my notes. Believe me, there is nothing said in that pile of monotonous crap that would make headlines if I didn't work to glam it up."

"Well, you don't attend Xavier's school," he retorted.

"I did once."

"For three weeks."

"It wasn't the right place for me. And, frankly, I don't think it's the right place for anyone. That school is a hazard to rational thought. Talk about 'peace' and 'unity' all you want, but the way the professor is going about it—"

"The professor's dead."  
My heart may have literally ceased to pump blood for a brief interval of time. I felt sick.

"Dead?"

"I would have told you earlier in the conversation, but I needed you to hear me out first…which you still haven't." He sighed, and his upright posture changed as he put his hand on my back. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Were you close?" My chest tightened as I held back any signs of emotion. I kept that position; chest still, face rigid, unable to relieve that tension. I never intended to break.

"I'll come back to pay my respects." Beyond that, I was determined to give absolutely nothing.

**May 3****rd****, 2005**

"Life doesn't work like that. You can't always determine what happens to you."

"You can determine how you respond."

"True enough. But sometimes there are factors that influence your decisions in ways you could never have anticipated. Those are the factors which test your character, and your character changes your response. Don't assume that the mind you have now is going to stay the same, Meri."

That was a discussion the professor and I once had. I shoved it to the back of my consciousness. Memories were costly, and they always popped up at the wrong times. Why is it that we are not allowed to pick and choose what we recall? After twenty years of running, I should have mastered the art of leaving behind those inconvenient interruptions that threatened my current reality. In this case, that current reality was uncertain.

**June 9****th****, 2026**

Stepping through the doors of the school was difficult. The pictures on the wall had changed. Most of the faces on the staff wall were new; I had only seen them on magazine covers—like Warren—or heard of them in passing. Journalism certainly keeps you up on the news; at least, the portion of it that you're paid to write about. Warren was right. Fact is stranger than fiction. But fiction still pays better, especially when it's disguised as truth. That was part of what was wrong with this school. There was no mystery as to their intentions and their positions, no pretenses. They couldn't afford to put on a false front these days. I shivered, and hid my hands inside my jacket sleeve as they burned from the cold.

"Lynx!"  
Aurora. I whipped around.

"Meri," I corrected her.

"It's nice to see you. Are you staying long?" She asked. I smiled.

"It's always a pleasure to see you too, but I think you already know I don't mean to stay long." Wow. I sounded snotty. Still, she didn't seem phased. I think most of the kids in that school come in with an attitude.

"Pity," she replied. "I was hoping you might stick around for a while and see the school." She paused and smiled, then pointed to the wall behind her. "We've made some real changes." I nodded, lifting my eyebrows.

"I noticed." I was going to add something a little lighter, maybe ask her how the new staff was, or—I just remembered—tell her I was sorry to hear about Xavier's death, but another voice entered the conversation.

"After all these years, you still haven't learned to talk like a normal person," he said.

"Logan…hi. How are you?" I knew he wouldn't give a long response.

"I'm fine. Yourself?"

"Different from when you last saw me. I'm not staying long," I assured him, "so you can relax."

"Who says I was worried?"  
I shrugged.

"So you're a big-shot now," he said half-mockingly. "'Newsweek's favorite journalist.' When are you gonna' write a story on me?"

"When you start shaping up," I snapped. "Violence sells, but it's not my cup of tea to write an entire report on senseless blood and gore. Leave that to war documentaries…and everyone else. Nowadays there's no shortage of killing." I stopped myself. As usual, I was turning this into more of a lecture than a dialogue. He was unfazed. (Also the usual)

"Ah, so you're a pacifist now? Funny position for you to take."  
The frustration was already building. Whenever I spoke with my father, it seemed the only thing we had in common was blood…and metal. Wolverine. I didn't exactly resent him, but we were far from friendly towards each other. Or was it just me?

"I'll go and let you two talk," Aurora politely dismissed herself.

"Actually, I've got to get going too. I have a class." Logan turned and began to walk away. I stopped him.

"Wait! You have a class?"

"Yeah, I teach a class."

"Teach? Who's responsible for this egregious crime against humanity?"

"As God is my witness, you will learn to speak English."

"God…right," I sighed. "You're the one who needs to learn how to communicate. What do you teach? How to rip an army to shreds when they open fire?"

"Before they open fire…if I have to." He gave that mix of a smile and a smirk. "See ya later. I'm late."

"Bye." I refrained from smiling back. It was so strange. I couldn't deny that there was something different about him. He seemed "whole." He was voluntarily letting his life be transformed for the second time, but in this instance, it seemed to be working for him. It was better than continually fighting something greater than himself. A sense of dread overtook me. I had to get out of there as soon as possible. First though, I had to find my room.

As I walked down the hallways, my mind traveled back to another visit I had with Professor Xavier.

**May 4****th****, 2005**

"Meri, do you know why you're here?"

"Sure I do, my mom was a slut and my dad was attracted to her."

"You're here to learn something."

"Really? I thought this was a school. Isn't a school the last place you actually learn something? Didn't you tell us that 'life was the greatest teacher'?"

"Don't be like your father."

"Oh, trust me—he's the last person I want to resemble."

"You have something that you don't even know about yet. You have no idea how valuable it is."

"Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?"

"You have to figure it out of your own."

"I knew you would say that."

"And you're not even psychic."

I heard the laughter and watched him push his wheelchair out the door, before vanishing into the present. He was gone now. Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that he didn't need to use his hands and arms to wheel himself around the entire mansion. But he did. He could have used his mind, but he chose to do things the hard way rather than use his abilities and risk separating himself from his students and coworkers. The professor may have been a dreamer, but he was also a doer. And he was a humble man. That is a rare quality in men. Perhaps that accounted for the change in my father. Even Wolverine, wild as he was, had been influenced by Xavier. Maybe I should have stayed a bit longer, if only to figure out what was going on inside these people's heads.

**June 29****th****, 2026**

It had been two weeks since I'd come back to Xavier's school, and aside from a few conversations (if you could even call them that) with my dad, there hadn't been any altercations. In fact, there hadn't been much of anything happening. Anywhere. My boss had been letting me telecommute, but even he was getting more than a bit irritated with my absence. Seniority has its limits. There were currently no major headliners, and I was expected to come up with something ASAP, which meant some investigating to compete with other sources.

"Whatcha doin?" a little voice asked. I spun around in my chair. A cute redheaded girl with pigtails stood behind me, staring at my laptop.

"I'm looking for people and things to write about," I said.

"Shouldn't you be calling people? That's a better way to get news," she told me matter-of-factly. 'Smart kid,' I thought.

"I guess I'm not really that into my work right now," I admitted. She shrugged, and walked away. What was this place doing to me? Not that into my work? And I was admitting this to a child? Stranger things do happen, I suppose. I just needed to find those "stranger things" so I could write about them! The thought had barely made its way through my mind when a shrill alarm sounded. Instead of panicking, I realized that this school could be my next article. To my shame, I remember thinking, "I hope this is more than a stupid fire on the top floor."  
A voice came over the intercom.

"Nobody panic." (No problem for me.) "Everybody exit as calmly and quickly as possible through the closest exits. This includes the emergency exits. Children, find an adult and stay together." I wondered who was talking. He had a hint of an accent. That was my last thought before I blacked out.

**Sometime the next morning...**

I opened my eyes slowly, as the light—brighter than ordinary sunlight—created a burning sensation. The entire room was white: white ceiling, white floors, and white walls. I closed them again and sighed. With my eyes still closed, I said loudly, "Hello...Is anyone here?" Silence. "Hello?" I said again. More silence. "Fuck," I whispered under my breath. I'd turned in three stories in the last fourteen days, and none of them were the "big" story I had promised. Sadly, that was the first and only thing I cared about at the moment. Would I get fired? Hopefully this was either a dream or something I could get out of and publish an article about. Just then, I heard a door open, and I squinted as I turned towards the sound.

"Get up," said a tall, low voiced man of mixed ethnicity, whose age I would set at around forty-five. I obeyed. "So this is it? You're it?" he laughed (forcedly). "I'm disappointed."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, trying to sound collected and unshaken.

"Shut up." He almost yelled, and his look of twisted pleasure disappeared. "Come with me." Again, I did as he'd asked. I let him grab my arm and practically drag me behind him. If he only knew that I could cut his neck or break his arm...or both...and most likely escape. But, to be honest, I was curious. This could turn into something interesting.

We walked through three long hallways, turning left, then right, then left again, before we came to an elevator, with eight arrows: Up, down, left, right, and—surprisingly—northeast, northwest, southeast, southwest. I took notes in my head. I felt like Charlie in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, but this was more hellish than childlike, and my guide was far from fun and eccentric.

He pushed the button between up and left. Northeast. I almost breathed a sigh of relief. I was hoping it wouldn't be completely to the left or right; my last meal had been a substantial one, and that kind of movement could be unpleasant, to say the least.

There was no bell to alert us when the elevator came—and it came instantaneously. It's strange how moments like that seem to move so fast and so slow at the same time. They're like a blur...in slow motion. Oh, that was a good line. I made another mental note. Then erased it. Too cliché.

The deranged Willy Wonka yanked my arm as he took me into the elevator. That was the first time I saw him start to realize something was a little different about me after all. My bones, having slowly ossified into metal (rather than simply solidifying), had left me a great deal heavier than I looked, and I looked like I shouldn't weigh more than about ninety pounds. The unusual ossification process had stopped my growth early as well. Instead of ending up at an average height (my dad was anywhere from 5'3" to 5'4" and my mother somewhere around 5'9"), I maxed out at 4'8." That was if I was standing on my tip-toes. His face didn't show this realization for more than half a second, but I noticed it. I was trying to read him as much as possible.

Ever the gentleman, he pushed me out when we arrived at the top floor. Such service.

"Thanks," I said sarcastically, before I could stop myself. His grip on my arm tightened.

"If I don't ask you a question, don't speak," he said, speaking almost directly into my ear. "Understand?"

"Yes sir." I looked straight at him, just to let him know that I wasn't going to be intimidated. He looked back at me like a pissed off bulldog on a leash. I knew then that someone must have told him to bring me "alive and unharmed," otherwise I'm sure he would have hit me without hesitation. I marveled again at the fact that he didn't know he couldn't harm me. Or maybe he did. Maybe he was playing mind games.

We walked down yet another abnormally long hallway to an even more abnormally large door. It had to be about twenty feet tall—with a frame all the way to the ceiling. That was when I noticed how strange the building was in general. Everything outside of the room I'd woken up in was metal, from that crazy door to the ceilings to the walls to the floors... everything. A loud knock interrupted my thoughts, as my guide pounded on the door.  
"Come in," I heard someone say. The voice was gender-neutral. It was not distinctly male or female.

We entered.

The room was well lit and pleasant. Soft music played through the speakers above a mahogany desk. A stately woman spun slowly around in her chair, then stopped, looking directly into my eyes.

"Sit down," she said, pointing to a large armchair to her right. I felt oddly connected to her. Her hair was a deep auburn. For a moment, I wondered if she could be my biological mother, thinking back on the pictures I'd seen at Xavier's school, but she wasn't nearly as pretty and her facial features were more angular.

"I hope the treatment wasn't too bad." Her voice was like velvet—much more feminine then it had sounded in the hall. Perhaps that was only because I was looking at her.

"Oh no," I replied. "Couldn't have asked for a friendlier tour guide. Lovely man, really. You should give him a raise."

She smiled. "You have a better sense of humor than your father."

I gritted my teeth at the unwelcome comparison. "Thanks, I didn't know he had one."

There was a brief silence, then a knock at the door. She excused herself, opened the door slightly, and quietly told whoever it was that she was busy with a 'client.' I was surprised she had dared to turn her back on me. It was almost eerie how calm she was.

"Now, back to business," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, I am a 'client' after all." I raised an eyebrow.

"Well, that is up to you. I can help you or make your life Hell, with absolutely no hesitation."

"I'm not interested."

"You haven't heard my terms."

"And I don't want to," I said firmly. "Excuse me."

As soon as I stood up to leave, the lights went out and a violent wind blew through the room, knocking me to the ground. She seemed to grow two feet taller in a moment, and her voice became stronger, more closely resembling what I'd heard upon first arriving.

"I didn't excuse you!" She wasn't shouting, but there was an intensity that made her statement sound more intimidating than if she had.

The wind stopped. Still shocked, I slowly rose to my feet. When I looked at her again, her appearance had changed. She now appeared to be around ninety—albeit a very fit, hardy ninety—and her hair had grown longer, to the small of her back.

"Sit back down, Lynx."

I complied.


	2. Chapter 2

For anyone who's reading, sorry it's been so long since I've posted (or even written) anything for this site. I'm in school right now so it's moved down on my priority list.

"Who are you?" I asked breathlessly, in a tone now void of all past airs and pride.

"I am your only chance for a sense of belonging…or for normalcy."

I thought for a moment, then wondered aloud, "Or?" I looked at her. "Why not both?" I corrected myself. "I _have_ both."

She smiled—neither a menacing nor a friendly smile. "No, she replied, placing her hand on my shoulder, then digging her fingernails in as she bent down to whisper in my ear. "You only thought you did."

If I hadn't still been in shock, I would have reacted then and there, in a fury. Instead, I listened.

"You had a job with homo sapiens, with normal humans," she explained, "but you didn't belong. Had they known what you were, they might not even have hired you."

I started to bring up affirmative action laws when she said, "And don't think that those bullshit 'affirmative action' laws would have helped. Besides, you aren't registered. That's because, deep down, you know you're not wanted. You know no government system is going to stand up for a race split off from the rest of mankind. You're a threat." She stopped for a moment, to let it all sink in. "As for the X-Men," she said, "that was your chance at belonging, but you passed it up to work with those against your kind."

"My kind?" Suddenly, I'd found my wits again. "My kind is mankind. I'm won't say I'm no different from a non-mutant, but I—_we_—are not some sub-species. I won't isolate myself."

"You already have."

"Maybe you should stop telling me what I have or haven't done," I snapped. Before I was conscious of what my own body was doing, the claws were out, like guns in a face-off, like swords drawn in a duel.


End file.
